


Incendiary

by orphan_account



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Bigotry & Prejudice, F/M, Internment Camps, M/M, Newtypes, Post Endless Waltz, Wrongful Imprisonment, Yaoi, original character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-08 17:23:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5506382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A group of wealthy college kids are murdered. There are no witnesses, no suspects. From within the simmering sludge of irrational fear and prejudice, conspiracy theories are born and innocent people pay the price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Early morning sunlight streamed in between the slats of the wooden blinds, causing Quatre to squint against it. He groaned, hand untangling from the mound of sheets and blankets to rub his eyes. He shifted slightly, the feel of soft cotton sheets warm and comforting against his bare skin. He turned his head away from the window, trying to calm his mind and slip back into his hazy doze.

Distantly, he could hear the water running. Trowa never failed to rise with the sun and start his day with a scalding hot shower. Quatre tried joining him once, but couldn't take the extreme heat. He much preferred a lukewarm shower, his skin too sensitive for the high temperatures. 

He could smell coffee brewing downstairs. The aroma rose over the fresh linen scent of the bedding and the heady, musky smell of Trowa. The rich, Arabic stuff Quatre loved, and he thanked his lucky stars for such a wonderful husband.

His subconscious was now fighting him, wanting to be awake, and he flipped over, cursing. He blinked up at the ceiling, bleary-eyed, and entertained himself with thoughts of his husband, naked in the shower. He envisioned powerful muscles shifting beneath smooth, tanned skin, while Trowa soaped himself up. Water catching the fine hairs on his body, little rivulets running down the long limbs and swirling into the drain. 

A stirring in his groin had Quatre rolling onto his belly where he lethargically rubbed the tingle away against the mattress, forcing himself to think about the day's tasks. Cops, and clients, and paperwork, oh my. He heard the water shut off and he lay still, staring at the wall. He closed his eyes even though he knew sleep would not come, but not willing to rise quite yet.

In the quiet placidity of the morning, he couldn't help but pick up Trowa's thoughts, though he often tried not to read him. He didn't like intruding into other people's minds, but at times like this, it was unavoidable. 

He idly read Trowa's mental to-do list. The clients he would be meeting with that day. A rather obnoxious middle aged woman whom Quatre couldn't stand. She flirted with his husband at every opportunity, apparently not caring that he didn't bat for her team. Trowa was a bounty hunter and private investigator. He started the business three years ago after an early retirement from the Preventers, a world wide law enforcement agency and part of the judicial branch of the Earth Sphere Unified Nations. He worked with a large clientele that included not only Preventers and other law enforcement, but also private citizens, tracking anyone from criminals on the lamb, to cheating spouses. 

He'd approached Quatre with his business proposal about eight months after their wedding. Quatre was apprehensive at first, but came around soon enough. Trowa was good at what he did and he always took every precaution to ensure his safety. With Quatre's help, they excelled at getting the job done.

During the war, Trowa had been an accomplished actor and infiltrator. He knew how to slip behind enemy lines and slip back out again, unseen, unheard. He could perform with the best of them. Easily fool the most cunning minds. With Quatre's abilities as an empath, and a telepath, they were an unstoppable team. 

While they worked the business together as equal partners, Quatre's official title was bookkeeper. His gifts as a Newtype were kept very much under wraps with only a select few actually aware of what he could do. Newtypes still faced a very uncertain future and there was plenty of prejudice to go around. Quatre consulted with their clients and relayed any useful information he could garner to his husband when the two were alone. He was the strategic mind behind setting up the operations. He found the flaws within the plans and made sure every 'i' was dotted and every 't' crossed. To fail in that regard could put his husband at risk.

Quatre sifted through Trowa's mind, tossing aside trivial thoughts about picking up his dry cleaning on the way home, or making a mental note to call his sister. He honed in on Trowa's memories of their lovemaking the night before. There, he could see himself through his husband's eyes, feel the love and desire Trowa felt for him. He wiggled happily under the covers as he experienced what Trowa felt when he made love to him. Though Quatre often cursed his Newtype abilities, this was the one thing he always cherished about it. 

It'd gotten stronger since the war. His telepathic abilities had been limited through touch, but now he could easily read thoughts from a good fifty kilometers, if there was little distraction. His ability to read people worked much like a satellite dish. When there was a clear sky, the signal was clear. When it rained, there was static. If his surroundings were chaotic, it was a lot harder to pick up thoughts, and oftentimes the feedback loop would give him migraines.

Quatre's ears tracked Trowa's muted footsteps on the carpet as he walked into the bedroom. He cracked an eyelid open and was treated to the sight of his husband, even more fit than he was during the war, naked but for a towel low on his hips. The sunlight filtering through the window cast bright lines across his smooth skin and gave it a golden glow. Quatre admired him with his one open eye, face smooshed against the pillows.

Trowa must have sensed it because he turned from his place in front of the open closet, glancing at the blond on the bed, eyebrow raised. Quatre's hand lifted in a parody of a wave, one side of his mouth curling up. Trowa smirked at him, said, "You planning on getting out of bed today?" 

Quatre's voice was croaky from sleep. "Nope. In fact, why don't you join me and we'll not get out of bed together." 

"That doesn't make any sense." Trowa selected a pair of black trousers and a blue button down shirt. He draped them across the bed, over Quatre's legs, and walked to the dresser, pulling out a pair of boxers. The towel fell away and Trowa sat on the bench at the foot of the bed, slipping his feet into the underwear. He stood up, pulling the shorts over his hips and walked back around to the side of the bed. He leaned down and brushed his lips against the side of the blond's head. "I've made coffee and I'll make you breakfast," he murmured. 

Quatre's arm shot out and wrapped around Trowa's neck before he could straighten up, pulling his head down for another kiss. Trowa indulged him, but made a face at his husband's morning breath. "You need to brush your teeth."

Quatre pressed his hand against Trowa's face and shoved him away. "Yeah, yeah." He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Grimacing, distaste evident in his voice, he asked, "When's your appointment?" 

Trowa turned from the mirror where he was buttoning his shirt. "Eight thirty." He was meeting with a wealthy socialite dead set on catching her husband with his mistress. She also had the hots for Trowa. He pushed the closet door open all the way and slid a tie off the rack. "You need to get in touch with Heero about the weapons' shipment," he said, winding the tie into a knot. 

"Yeah, I know. I'll call him in a bit," Quatre said, yawning, fingers scratching a bare leg. Heero was residing in the United States with his lover, Duo. Their old war comrades supplied them with the guns, ammunition, and other equipment Trowa needed to track his targets and execute raids.

Quatre stood and stretched, jaw popping with another yawn. "We should get that case of tear gas today that was on back order." He padded to the bathroom.

"Hmmm..." Trowa said, nodding. "Good. Running low on that." He checked his appearance in the mirror, running his fingers through brown hair. Gone were the long bangs in the front that he'd sported as a teenager. He stood straight, tall, broad-shouldered, strikingly handsome. He looked like a man ready and able to take over the world and he looked like he knew what to do with it once he did. Quatre's eyes caught the glimmer of gold on Trowa's finger, thought smugly, _And he's all mine_.

Standing in the threshold of the adjoining bathroom, he glanced over his shoulder, smirking, "I expect breakfast when I'm done. Chop, chop, my good man." He clapped his hands and ducked into the bathroom. Cackling, he slammed the door when his husband advanced on him. 


	2. Chapter 2

Trowa slung his suit jacket over the back of a kitchen chair and opened the cupboard to grab a frying pan. He placed it on the stove and pulled out his phone, checking the time. He still had a good hour and Quatre always took long showers. He opened his contacts and located Mrs. Seigried, his morning client, to confirm their appointment. Now was the time to do it since his husband wasn't in the room. Trowa knew from experience that Quatre would be pulling faces, trying to distract him from his phone call. He desperately tried to stay professional, despite Quatre and his client doing everything in their power to be unprofessional. 

He knew he couldn't really blame Quatre. The woman was a pariah. She didn't care if her husband was cheating on her. After Quatre met her, he'd informed Trowa that she actually _wanted_ her husband to be having an affair. If he was caught, her prenup would be rendered null and void. She would be free from her miserable marriage, several hundred million dollars worth of stocks, bonds, and cold hard cash, richer. 

Quatre read that off of her within the first few minutes of their initial interview. She was as selfish and nasty as they came. She was condescending and treated just about everyone around her with disdain. She hated Quatre. She hated the fact that Trowa didn't have eyes for anyone but him. Quatre ranted and raved after they'd gone home that night, outraged that this woman had so openly and unapologetically flirted with Trowa right in front of him.  It'd taken Trowa hours to calm him down with lots of intimate words of reassurance, many soft kisses, and passionate lovemaking. Trowa was an open book that night, welcoming Quatre into his mind with no reservations. He'd needed Quatre to know that he wasn't going to leave him. 

His phone rang just as he was about to make the call, Mrs. Seigried's personal number popping up on his caller ID. Trowa cleared his throat and pushed the green button, establishing the connection.

"Ah, Mr. Barton! So good to hear your voice. I hope I'm not calling too early?" 

"No, not at all, Mrs. Seigried."

"Edna, please. Must we do this every time?"

"With all due respect, Mrs. Seigried, I prefer to address my clients formally."

"Oh, but I'm not just any client, am I?" The woman simpered. Trowa's eye twitched. He could almost _hear_ her batting her eyelashes. He clenched his teeth, using his monumental gift of self-restraint to ignore the suggestive tone.

"What can I do for you, Mrs. Seigried?"

She sighed, sounding dreadfully put out by his unwillingness to address her by her given name. "Well, I'd like to know if we're still on for this morning? I know of a charming little cafe in the east district that has the most wonderful quiche - "

"Yes, our appointment is still scheduled for eight thirty, but we will meet in the office, as we always do," Trowa said with practiced patience. 

She huffed, "Must you always do things by the book, Mr. Barton?" 

"Yes, M'am."

"Very well. I will meet you there at eight thirty sharp." Her voice dropped conspiratorially, "Is - will your... _husband_ be there as well?" She spat the word 'husband' like it was a dirty secret. It took every ounce of willpower Trowa had not to tell the woman off, once and for all.

"No, M'am. He has a prior engagement."

"Oh?" She said, instantly perked. "Alright, then. I'll be seeing you in about an hour. Goodbye, Mr. Barton."

Trowa pressed the 'end' button on his phone and slipped it back into his pocket. He leaned his hands on the table, counted to ten. _Breathe in, breath out..._ He'd been getting a lot of practice with these breathing exercises lately. Controlling his anger was imperative. Quatre would most definitely pick up on it, if he hadn't already, and Trowa didn't want to upset him. He couldn't wait to finally get this husband of hers on tape with his mistress so he could be done with this case already. 

He pulled eggs and turkey sausage out of the fridge. Turning the burner on, he heated the pan, dropping a pat of butter into it. It sizzled as it melted and Trowa went to work frying up the sausage and whisking the eggs. He spilled some onto the counter from the vigorous stirring and took a deep, calming breath, reaching for the dish towel to wipe up the splatters.

"Was that the bitch?" Quatre's voice startled him and he jumped slightly, turning to see his husband in the kitchen, pouring coffee into a red cup. Trowa shook his head, turning back to his cooking.

"You shouldn't call her that."

Quatre leaned against the counter, mug against his lips, blowing gently. He shrugged. "Why not? It's what she is."

"I know, but right now, she's our client. We need to be amicable."

"It's seven thirty in the morning and I'm in my kitchen. I don't need to be amicable about a woman who is trying to get into my husband's pants."

Trowa sighed and closed his eyes, not thrilled to be having this conversation again. He flipped the sausage. "Quatre, can we not do this? I know you hate her and I don't blame you. I don't like her either, but we have a working relationship at the moment and I need to be cordial, at least until this is over."

"Sure is taking you a while to catch that elusive husband of hers."

Trowa turned his head sharply, eyes narrowed. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

Quatre's shoulders lifted in a casual shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. "Nothing." His tone was that of forced lightness. "Just...you don't usually have this tough of a time catching someone."

Trowa faced him, hands on his hips. "Are you trying to insinuate something?"

Quatre stared back, eyes challenging. "I don't know. Is there something to insinuate?"

Turning off the burner, Trowa shoved the pan to the back of the stove. He spun around and stalked towards his husband, leaning into his space. He raised his hand, finger pointed in the blond's face. "You are unbelievable! I know I did not just hear you imply that I am deliberately taking my time on this case because I am interested in that woman. You damn well should know me better than that." He pulled back and walked around the table, grabbing his jacket. He unhooked his keys from the wall mount and turned back to Quatre who still hadn't moved. "I'm going to work. To do my job. I suggest you do yours as well." He left the kitchen and stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him. 

He reached his car and unlocked the door. He stood for a just a few moments, breathing hard through his nose, trying to calm his anger and regain his control. His muscles shaking with adrenaline. How could Quatre even _think_ that? Had Trowa given any sign that he was interested in her? He didn't think so. Quatre would have been able to read if off him if he was. Trowa never hid his thoughts and feelings from his husband. Quatre should know better.

He closed his eyes as the deep breathing began to work, blood pressure leveling out. He thought about how he would feel if their positions were reversed. Trowa would be furious if someone was relentlessly pursuing Quatre the way this woman was pursuing him. But Quatre _knew_ he wasn't interested. That, Trowa was sure of and it relaxed him a little. Quatre's behavior was emotionally driven, lashing out in frustration. For that, Trowa could forgive him, but they definitely needed to discuss the issue of making unfair accusations, no matter how justified their feelings were.

Trowa pulled the door open and slid behind the wheel, laying his jacket across the passenger seat. He grasped the handle to pull the door closed when he heard Quatre shout for him. The blond was running out the front door, not even bothering to close it behind him. He reached the car and stopped a few feet away, panting for breath. His socks wet from the damp grass.

"Trowa, wait. I'm sorry. I was being awful." He swallowed, looking pained. "I know you're not interested in her and I know you wouldn't do anything to jeopardize our marriage. I'm just - I'm having a hard time dealing with this and it makes me angry and insecure." He looked up, eyes wavering, uncertain. "Forgive me?"

Trowa was still irritated, but he could understand where Quatre was coming from. He got out of the car and closed the distance between them. He cupped his husband's face, looking deep into stormy eyes, said emphatically, " _You_ are the only one I want. I love you. I hope you know that."

Quatre nodded, hands clasping around Trowa's wrists. "I do. I know it. It's just - I know what she thinks of me. I know what her intentions are. She hates me -"

"She doesn't hate you."

Quatre gave him a look, brow raised. "She does. Who's the telepath here?"

Trowa brushed a lock of blond hair off Quatre's forehead. "Look, I'm getting close, okay? I should be able to catch this guy within the next couple of days. Once I have the evidence, I can present it to her, and we can wash our hands of this. Alright?"

"Promise?"

Trowa stroked a soft cheek, tipped Quatre's face up, pressing a kiss to the plush lips. "Promise," he whispered. He held eye contact, opening himself up to be read and Quatre took full advantage. After a few moments, the blond sighed shakily, and nodded.

"Okay. I really am sorry, love. I didn't mean any of that."

"I know. I'm sorry you have to deal with this."

"I'm sorry _you_ do. First you have to deal with that - that tart. Now, you have to deal with my petulance. I'm such a brat."

"Yes, you are, but I love that about you."

"I'm sorry for that, too."

"I'm sure you are, baby."

"So...can I still kick her ass when this is all over?" Quatre turned hopeful eyes on his husband.

"That might land you in a little bit of trouble," Trowa said, slightly concerned that Quatre would actually do just that. 

The blond smirked, "It'd be worth it."

"Quatre."

Quatre tilted his head back, laughing. "Alright, I'll be good. No violence then. Maybe Duo can hook me up with one of his paint bombs. Quid pro quo."

Trowa chuckled, "Now, that I can get behind." He checked his watch. "I gotta go."

"Be careful. When will you be home?"

"Usual time, probably."

He nodded, smiling. "Okay, I'll see you soon. I love you." He wrapped his arms around Trowa, mouth pressing eagerly against his husband's. Trowa kissed him, pushing all the love and devotion he had into it and the blond moaned in appreciation. He watched as Trowa climbed back into the car and waved from the curb as he drove away. 


	3. Chapter 3

Quatre shut the front door and leaned against it, closing his eyes. What had gotten into him? He couldn't believe he just accused Trowa of wanting to sleep with his client. He _knew_ Trowa wasn't interested. He could read it off him without even tapping into his mind. He knew how Trowa felt about it. He supposed the stress of the situation just overwhelmed him. The tension of dealing with this woman and her spiteful, vindictive thoughts was exhausting. How anyone could live like that was beyond him. He hated the fact that Trowa had to deal with her. He knew his husband could handle himself, but it was so aggravating not being able to just tell her what he really thought of her.

They'd been married for four years and while it was a wonderful, strong, and stable marriage, it wasn't without the typical bickering and occasional fights. It wasn't easy living with one person day in and day out, learning to adjust to their personal habits, their idiosyncrasies. They'd been together off and on for a total of twelve years, meeting when Quatre was only fifteen and Trowa, seventeen. Sadly, Trowa really didn't know his true age at the time, having been only a baby when his parents were killed and his older sister lost to him. Later, when the two siblings reunited, Trowa's identity was finally confirmed, his sister told him he'd been born in August, AC 178. He'd wept in Quatre's arms that night, confused by his own poignant reaction, but elated all the same.

Trowa had had some flings before settling down with Quatre seven years ago. Quatre'd had only one. A Maguanac whose name was Asadel. Five years older than Quatre, he was exotically handsome with olive skin, dark eyes, and black wavy hair. He'd wooed the, at the time, emotionally vulnerable Quatre, who'd been pining for Trowa. The man was amorous, passionate, but also gentle and romantic, and Quatre was swept off his feet before he even realized it. Rashid was furious when he'd discovered their relationship, under the impression that Quatre was being taken advantage of. Quatre vehemently defended Asadel, but broke off the relationship anyway. It had been fun, but it wasn't what Quatre wanted, needed. He threw himself into his work, refusing to even entertain the idea of dating, despite pressure from his family and the media.

He rubbed his temples, blew out a breath, not happy with himself for drudging up thoughts of a very difficult and lonely time in his life. Trowa had been slow to come around, but when he'd finally decided that knew what he wanted, his affection could not be contained. His convictions firmly in place, he seemed to feel the need to make up for lost time and heartache. He came at Quatre with everything he had, all strong arms, eager hands, passionate kisses, and exalted eyes. They'd moved in together after four months of whirlwind romance that still left Quatre dizzy with euphoria when he thought about it. He moaned softly, involuntary, at the memories, head lolling against the door, grinning like a love-sick fool.

He'd have to do something special to make it up to Trowa for his behavior. Maybe a nice dinner and Trowa's favorite movie, a massage. He deserved it. He was an amazing man with unlimited amounts of integrity and decency. That decided, Quatre ran up the stairs to the bedroom to change his wet socks. Anxiety was bubbling in his stomach and he rubbed it, attempting to soothe the butterflies. This particular client gave him horrible vibes and they seemed to get worse every time Trowa met with her.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and peeled his socks off, tossing them into the hamper, one just missing the mark. He sighed and got up to grab the sock, dumping it into the basket. He selected a fresh pair out of the nightstand, pulling them on and walked to the closet to get his shoes. Shoving his feet into a pair of loafers, he headed back down to the kitchen to clean up the breakfast dishes.

The food was only half cooked, the eggs congealed. Quatre wrinkled his nose and tipped the pans' contents into the garbage disposable. Though he hated to waste food, his stomach churned at the thought of eating. He placed his cooled coffee into the microwave and heated it up, though it probably wasn't the best idea to be drinking coffee at the moment. He quickly washed the pans and placed them back in the cabinet. Grabbing his mug, he wandered into the office, picking up the morning paper off his desk. He plopped down in the chair, the springs creaking slightly, and skimmed the headlines, the mug resting gently against his lips.

Among the numerous front page stories of political contention and squabbling, and weather forecasts, the biggest story this morning was murder in the booming districts of West London. A group of young Oxford students found dead in a vacant alley while bar hopping in the vibrant area of the city popular with young college types. It was rich with arts and culture, loaded with bars and clubs, galleries, trendy bookstores, and coffee shops. Quatre and Trowa frequented the spot often, especially loving the eccentric, but delightfully creative independent theaters, and a high end club, favored by many lgbt patrons. Illegal activity was typically limited to the exchange of designer drugs and drunken fisticuffs. Extreme violence was rare.

One victim was said to be the oldest son of a senior member of Parliament. There were six victims in all, gunned down in their prime. Quatre scanned the article. Apparently robbery was not a motive because their wallets, purses, phones, and jewelry had been found with the bodies. All their money and credit cards were accounted for. So, they were going with a random act of violence, or a personal vendetta. But a personal vendetta to whom? One of the students, or to the student's Parliament father? Was there a political precedent? A message to Parliament? An act of terrorism? There was no sign of the weapon, no suspects, no witnesses. Odd, considering the highly populated area.

Because these were kids who came from privileged backgrounds, one who's father was a prestigious member of government, a nation-wide manhunt was underway and it appeared they were pulling out all the stops to catch the killer, or killers. Every possible resource was being tunneled into this investigation. Of course, the Preventers were all over it, Quatre had no doubt. Large amounts of money were likely changing hands, some of it probably less than lawful. Quatre knew how the system worked and found himself grateful that he'd left that life behind. Politics was a dirty business, justice was often bought, money and power always had its way. He did not miss it one bit.

He jumped when the phone rang, tossing the paper down on the desk, and reached for the receiver.

"Bloom Investigations, how may I help you?"

" _Jeez, Q, you sound like a proper secretary,_ " a jovial voice snickered into his ear.

"Duo?" Quatre checked the phone base, the ID readout displaying the name 'Duo Maxwell'.

The voice scoffed, " _You're surprised?_ _Ch, I'm insulted, really I am._ "

"Oh, stop it. And I'm not a prop - I'm not a secretary." Quatre propped the phone between his ear and shoulder and reached across the desk for the weapons' inventory file.

" _Okay, Q, sure you're not_."

"Shut up," Quatre shuffled through the folder until he found the document he needed. He smirked, "Where's your lover? Isn't he supposed to be calling me?"

" _Oh, I see. Too good to talk to me, are you?_ " Quatre chuckled, familiar enough with Duo's humor to know he wasn't actually offended. " _We're having an issue with one of our distributors. He's gone over to give them a little...incentive...if you know what I mean_."

"He makes a very effective mook."

" _He'll probably take that as a compliment_."

"As well he should. What do you have for me?"

" _Right down to business, eh? No small talk? You sound like Heero._ "

"What do you want, the laundry list of mundane daily chores?"

" _Oh, come on. I know your life is more exciting than that. Come on, work that brain magic you got there. What am I thinking right now?"_

"Duo, you know I can't read you over the phone, but I'd be willing to bet it's probably extremely perverted and I'm actually incredibly grateful that I can't right now."

Duo guffawed so loud, Quatre had to pull the phone away from his ear for a second to spare his hearing. " _Touche, Q, my man, touche. Okay, I have one unit of tear gas comin' to you next week and - did you get the pepper spray yet?_ "

"No, but I'm expecting it today, or tomorrow. I sent the payment last night. It should arrive in your account this afternoon."

" _Sounds good. I'll send you the invoice as soon as it clears. Any other orders for me?_ "

Quatre uncapped his pen and checked off the unit order, scribbling in the ETA. "No, not at the moment. We're pretty well-stocked otherwise." He set the pen aside, laid the sheet back in the folder, and slid it into metal box on top of the desk. "How are you guys? Business going good? Heero never tells me anything."

 _"He never tells anyone anything. It's like pulling teeth_ ," Duo sighed, exasperated, but endeared nonetheless. " _Oh, it's good. Things are good. You know Heero, all work and no play. He forgets that he's human and needs to relax and unwind sometimes. That's when my gundamium handcuffs come in handy_."

Quatre could practically hear Duo's eyebrows waggling on the other end of the phone. "Yeah, did not need to know about that, thanks."

" _Hey, you asked._ " Duo paused. " _Are you - I mean, you still have that...one client?_ "

Knowing exactly who he was talking about, Quatre huffed, rubbed the side of his mouth in agitation. "Yes."

" _Ooh. Tough luck, kid. She's still barking up the wrong tree, huh?_ " Duo asked, though it was obvious he already knew the answer.

Quatre groaned, "Yes, she is." The annoyance made his voice low, grating.

" _Hey, I'm sorry man. Didn't mean to bring up a touchy subject_."

"No, it's okay. I'm not annoyed at you. Just the situation. I just want this case to be over with. Trowa just left to meet with her. Really hoping he gets the footage he needs to close this."

" _I don't blame you. I'd be pretty pissed, too. You know, I know a guy who could...take care of that problem for you,_ " Duo whispered conspiratorially. His voice was husky, mischievous.

Quatre barked out a laugh, his head tipping back. "Don't tempt me. Trowa would kill us both."

" _Eh, what kind of friend would I be if I didn't at least offer?_ " Quatre suddenly had a vivid picture of Duo sitting in Heero's chair, feet up on his desk, shrugging nonchalantly.

"Are you still coming out next month?" The two couples got together twice a year, once in the summer, and once in the winter. Quatre and Trowa would travel to the states for one trip, and Heero and Duo to London for the other. It was something that Quatre always looked forward to. It reinforced their bond, kept their friendship strong.

" _As long as there aren't any surprise problems, yep. Wouldn't miss it._ "

"Can't wait to see you guys."

" _Same here. Oh - Heero just walked in. You still need to talk to him?_ "

Quatre scratched his head and lifted his mug. "No, I don't think so. I think we've got everything settled. Just tell him I said, 'hi', and I'll talk to him next week."

" _Will do. See ya soon, Q_."

"Yeah, bye, Duo."

He pressed the 'end' button on the phone and set the receiver back on its base. Leaning back in the leather office chair, he rested his elbows on the arms, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. His eyes caught the large headline on the front of the newspaper. Something about it set him on edge, but he didn't know what. It gave him a bad feeling. Even worse than that of Mrs. Seigried. Something ominous, but intangible settled over his mind like a dark cloud.

He shook his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts, mentally berating himself for his paranoia. He swiped the remote control off the desk and flicked on the telescreen. A news conference, the head of Parliament delivering a resonating speech, speaking on behalf of the shooting victims and their families. The man was ardent as he vowed swift retribution, his fist raised in the air, then slamming down onto the pulpit to punctuate his biting words. Dozens of microphones were mounted under his chin, recording every passionate word. He spoke with righteous indignity, the blinding flashes of the cameras not fazing him in the slightest.

What sent chills racing down Quatre's spine was the large scare quotes at the bottom of the screen. _'Newtype Responsible for Murder?'_ The uneasy feeling came surging back with forceful clarity. The question mark at the end was irrelevant. Quatre was well aware of how things worked. Opinions were being formed, the seeds of prejudice planted. They'd found their suspect, or at the very least, a scapegoat.

"Oh, damn." This would not end well.


End file.
